


Touch Me (I Want to be Dirty)

by fallingwildrosepetals



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Adult Losers Club (IT), Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Blasphemy, Brainwashing, Canonical Child Abuse, Donald Uris is a dick, Eddie Kaspbrak Has Issues, Eddie Kaspbrak Has OCD, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insecurity, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, Non Graphic Vomiting, Nudity, References to Illness, Self-Medication, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sickness, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Stomach Ache, Touch Aversion, Vomiting, Working Through Problems, andrea uris is wonderful, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:59:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingwildrosepetals/pseuds/fallingwildrosepetals
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak thought he moved on from his mother's abuse, but when she died his trauma unexpectedly resurfaced. His fear of germs, sickness, and contamination came back with a vengeance.Unable to process his emotions and unwilling to go to therapy, Eddie struggles to let his lovers touch him, especially Richie. Stan vows to help Eddie overcome his trauma and reclaim his intimacy with the Losers.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, The Losers Club/The Losers Club (IT)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 68





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I tweaked Sonia's Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. She moves from tricking Eddie into thinking he's sick to actually making him sick, a la _Sharp Objects_. I'm trying not to make it too graphic, but I will put a warning up on each chapter that contains explicit reference to it. (There will be flashbacks) 
> 
> 2) Yes, systematic desensitization is a potential treatment for contamination OCD. I have used it in the past with mixed results. However, this is going to be a romanticized version, so please don't take it as any kind of medical advice. If you're struggling with OCD symptoms, I recommend consulting with a therapist. 
> 
> 3) In this universe, Eddie and Bev are not sexually attracted to each other. They don't have sex, but they do participate in group sex together. (i.e. Bev might give Eddie instructions on fucking someone, but that someone won't be her). 
> 
> Ultimately, their bond is deeply intimate and romantic. They are as much together as everyone else in the Losers Club. The chapters in which I explore their relationship will be explicitly marked. I understand that the Bev/Eddie relationship is controversial, so please feel free to skip those chapters if this bothers you. 
> 
> 4) The tags will not be conclusive until the entire fic is posted. I recommend skimming them when I post new chapters to ensure that you aren't reading something triggering.

There was something wrong with Eddie Kaspbrak. 

When he was a kid, _before_ , it was easier to forget the germs that lived on every surface. His relentless fear of sickness was eclipsed by Richie’s bad jokes, Bill’s sense of adventure, and Stan’s quick wit. 

Wrapped in his friends, Eddie could go days or even weeks without caring what he touched. 

Eddie pretended around his mother, but she always knew when he was careless, when he was _better_. She would remind him that he was different. Unlike the other kids, Eddie wouldn’t be okay if he got sick. 

In death, she lurked in a corner of his brain, webbed like a spider, watching. 

\--

It was a bad week. Everyone at work contracted a cold or worse. Eddie didn’t have his own office, so he had to listen to all their squelching sicknesses—hacking and sneezing and blowing snot into Kleenex. His skin crawled. 

No one dared enter Eddie’s cubicle. Every ten minutes, he disinfected everything. Every time he had to use a door, he washed the knob. He snapped at anyone who got too close. 

When he escaped into the fresh, crisp air at the end of the day, all Eddie wanted was to burn his suit and scrub his skin off. 

The freeway traffic inched forward as if on the backs of lazy snails. Eddie vibrated in his seat, dousing all the exposed skin he could reach in hand sanitizer and yelling at the cars ahead to “fucking drive already!”

Well over an hour later, he finally pulled into his driveway, leapt from the car, and doused the front doorknob in Clorox. God knows where his friends had been all day. What they had touched. 

Before he finished, the door swung open to reveal Richie—wild haired, cloudy glasses, nose bright red, a smear of dirt on his right cheekbone. “Are you—” 

"—Eds!” Grinning, he scooped Eddie into his arms. “You’re finally home!” 

Richie smelled of dirt and snot like when they were five and he used his shirt as a catch-all towel. Eddie squirmed, skin exploding into thousands of spider crawls. “Get off, get off, _getoff_.” 

Richie dropped him and jumped back as though burned. “I’m sorry.” 

“No. I’m sorry.” Eddie’s face burned. He bent down and untied his shoes, setting them neatly on the tree. 

“What…what did I do wrong?” 

Eddie straightened, resisting the urge to bury his face in his _filthy dirty_ hands. “Nothing. Why?” 

“It’s just…” Richie sighed. “I know you don’t mean it. I know you have an OCD thing, but we haven’t really touched in months and I…I wanted to make sure you weren’t mad at me.” 

Had it really been that long? "I'm not mad. I’m sorry." 

He put his hands up. "No, no. It's okay, Spageds, really. I just wanted to make sure we were okily dokily, I can't have my favorite pasta dish mad at me that would be--" 

"Richie.” Eddie fought the urge to shout. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just having a rough time right now, I guess." 

"I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?" Richie rubbed his hands together like a nervous racoon. His nails were getting long again, the undersides grey with dirt. 

"Not really." Eddie took a deep, calming breath. "Can you go take care of your fingernails?" 

Richie tucked his hands in his armpits. "What's wrong with my fingernails?" 

"When's the last time you scrubbed under them?" 

"Earlier today." 

Eddie raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, so yesterday. But I was in the garden like an hour ago!" 

"You should have scrubbed your hands as soon as you were done. Dirt carries all kinds of bacteria that could kill you.” 

Richie bit his lip, deflated. "You're right, Eds. I'll go take care of this." 

"Thank you." Finally free, Eddie raced upstairs to take his shower. 

\--

Later that night, Eddie was at his desk in the home office, making a fiscal chart for the business he eventually wanted to start. His water bottle was empty and he still had another eight ounces to drink that day, so he saved his work and crept down the hall. Richie’s voice floated in from the kitchen. Of course. 

Eddie stalled. He wanted to see Richie, but he didn’t want to touch him. Richie always wanted touches. He resolved to go in anyway, but then: 

"Am I disgusting?" Richie’s voice had a rough quality to it, like when they would all happen upon graffiti that said _Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock._ Like he was in a lot of pain and trying to hide it. 

"Richie," Bev said, "you burped the alphabet at the dinner table yesterday." 

"Which was hilarious."

"Sure, until it came out the other end and you sharted so hard you made yourself throw up." 

Eddie gagged a little. That had been disgusting, but it didn’t mean _Richie_ was disgusting. 

"So I am disgusting."

Bev scoffed. "Where is this coming from?" 

“Uh. Nowhere.” 

“Richie.” 

"Eddie got upset when I hugged him earlier.” 

"Oh, sweetheart.” Bev sighed. “I don't think it's personal. You know how he is—touching germs is hard for him, and you've always been kind of a germ." 

"Gee, thanks, Beaverly." 

"I think he likes that about you, though. He laughed the hardest out of any of us yesterday."

"Sure. Until I get too close." 

"Do you think it has something to do with his mom? She hated you." 

"That bitch is dead," Richie said. "And Eddie always let me touch him when she was alive." His voice broke. "It is so hard not to touch him." 

"I know." 

Water forgotten, Eddie crept upstairs to his bedroom. He found Stan wrapped in a fluffy cardinal blanket, reading some book in bed. 

"How do you do it?" Eddie demanded. 

Stan closed the book and placed it on his nightstand. "How do I do what?" 

"How do you let Richie touch you? Your OCD is way crazier than mine." 

Stan glared. "Firstly, neither of us is 'crazy.' We have trauma and unbalanced brain chemistry, which you would know if you ever went to therapy." 

"Whatever, Stanley.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “Spare me the lecture and answer my fucking question." 

"Practice." 

"What? How do you _practice_ letting Richie touch you?" 

"It's called exposure therapy. You interact with your fears in order to condition yourself not to fear them.” 

Eddie's skin crawled. "I don't think I can." 

Stan paused and adjusted his glasses. "Tell me more about your problems with touching." 

“Uh.” Eddie shifted from one foot to the other. "Sometimes when people go to touch me or I have to touch them, all I can think about is germs and grime and gunk and then all I can hear is my mom sayin' I'm gonna, I dunno, get sick..." 

Stan smiled crookedly. "Sometimes when I try to eat I get images of...things...in my food. I know they're not really there, but I struggle to eat all the same." 

Eddie dropped onto his bed. "I didn't know that. How do you deal with it?" 

"I try to eat anyway, but if it's too hard I'll find a different food." 

"Does that help?" 

"Most of the time.” Stan’s eyes brightened. “Actually, I think a similar tactic might help you with Richie." 

Eddie wrapped his arms around his stomach. "How do you mean?" 

"You have touch aversion with all people, right? Richie's just the worst." 

"Strangers are the worst--"

"Well, I don't want you touching strangers,” Stan snapped, then visibly regained his composure. “Of us Losers, is Richie the worst?” 

"Yes." 

"Then I have an idea. It’ll be hard, and you’ll have to keep at it. It’s not perfect.” 

“What is it?” 

“I think we should break your fear of touch, one of us at a time, saving Richie for last.” 

Eddie shuddered hard, stomach cramping. 

Stan’s expression softened. "You don't have to. I’ll be here either way.” 

Eddie thought on his friends, his lovers. Most of them hadn’t tried to touch him since…well, since his mother died nearly a year prior. Stan was especially vigilant. He counted the seconds out loud when he washed his hands and always asked permission before getting too close. Everyone else kept their distance, quiet and as emotionally reserved as physically, except Richie. 

Richie had always been the one to break Eddie out of his isopropyl alcoholic prison. Now, he couldn’t even reach him through the bars. Eddie suspected this hurt more than Richie was willing to admit. 

"Let's do it," Eddie said. "I want to."


	2. Stan (The Past: Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter TWs: 
> 
> non-graphic vomiting, stomach pain, illness, child abuse, brainwashing
> 
> Eddie’s abuse in this is loosely based on the child abuse in _Sharp Objects_ by Gillian Flynn.

After _that summer_ , after he found out his medicines were fake and he wasn’t asthmatic, Eddie felt the best and bravest he ever had. _He wasn’t sick._ He was good enough to beat monsters. He could be there for his friends. He could run and run and run, until even Bill fell behind. 

His mom, ever watchful, noticed. For weeks she sulked, lumped in her chair, picking at her fingernails, lip twitching in disgust. Nothing made her happy, not even using his inhaler. 

Eddie spent as much time out of the house as he could that late summer and fall. At least one Loser always by his side. Running and biking and playing sports. There were sleepovers, visits to Bev, and rides out to Mike’s farm to help out. It was as golden a time as he could remember, despite the darkness that lingered at the window of every abandoned house. 

Then the bellyache started. 

Like a punch to the gut, the pain came in a hard burst. Eddie barely made it to the toilet before he threw up. Shaking, sweaty, and breathless, he huddled on the bathroom floor until his mom scooped him up and set him in the bathtub with a white plastic bucket. 

“Shouldn’t I—” He gasped. “Hos—” 

“Oh, no, sweetie,” she said. “I know what you have.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wh—” 

“It’s what your dad had, Eddie-bear. Doctors can’t help.” 

Eddie ducked his head into the bucket and retched, feeling like his insides were crawling up his throat. Was he gonna die like his dad?

She patted his back. “We just have to wait it out.” 

When finally nothing came up, not even stomach bile, she took the bucket, undressed him, and filled the tub with lukewarm water. Shaking uncontrollably, he let her wash and dry him. 

After she helped Eddie to his bedroom and tucked him under the covers, she collapsed onto the squashy armchair next to his bed with a groan. 

"That Tozier child," she began, "there's something wrong with him. He's sick, Eddie-bear, a carrier of disease. Emma Rudd saw him wipe his nose on the palm of his hand in the supermarket and—you’ll never believe this—he touched all the fruit!"

Eddie sighed. His whole body ached, his eyelids felt like sandpaper, and he just wanted to sleep. "Richie's not sick, Ma." 

She _clucked_ her tongue against her teeth. "Now Eddie, we've talked about this. Some people don't show symptoms, but they carry bad diseases anyway. And your immune system is so fragile, sweetheart, you need to be careful..." 

She talked about all his Losers. Stan was always out watching birds, notorious carriers of disease; Mrs. Rudd heard Bev had the clap and was willing to _make it_ with any boy who asked; Mike worked on a farm all day, caring for flea-ridden animals and shoveling scat; Ben ate all the foods that would clog Eddie’s arteries and hurt his sensitive tummy; Bill had been spotted in the sewers, of all places, on multiple occasions.

Eddie struggled to stay awake. He just wanted to sleep, to forget the pain and the nausea, but every time he closed his eyes she snapped her fingers in his face. 

After the other Losers, she circled back to Richie. Richie Tozier, who played in the mud, dirt shoved under his fingernails, mouth filthy as the soles of his feet. Who always had a runny nose, had contracted pink eye several times, and clung to his friends— _clung to Eddie_ —like a baby opossum. 

_Richie is dirty, Eddie-bear. He could get you really sick. He could kill you._

\--

The bellyaches never really stopped. He would go weeks or months without an episode, but they always came back.

The spring Eddie was sixteen, he was in bed for a whole week with one. When his mom finally let him go back to school, Stan was waiting at his locker. 

“You’re back,” he said, voice cracking. 

“Yup.” Eddie tossed his bookbag into the locker, then balled his hands into fists to stop the shaking. 

“I need to talk to you.” Stan leaned in close, until all Eddie could smell was the faint lemon of his soap. “I got us hall passes. Come with me.” 

Eddie followed Stan down the hall, into the library, and through the stacks into a back corner coated with thick, grey dust. Stan folded his arms and stared at Eddie, the golden flecks in his hazel eyes almost shimmering in the fluorescents. 

“What’s wrong?” Eddie asked, voice rough and a little painful.

“Last week I had a paper due in psychology.” 

“So?” Eddie shifted on his feet. He wished he had a chair. 

“ _So_ , do you remember your mother tricking you with placebo medication to make you believe you were sick?” 

His stomach clenched. “How the fuck could I forget that, Stanley?” 

Stan chewed on his lip, raising little droplets of blood to the surface. “Have you ever heard of Munchausen syndrome by proxy?” 

“Stop biting yourself.” Eddie snapped. “No. I haven’t heard of that.” 

He released his lip with a half shrug. “It’s a condition in which a caregiver, say a mother, will pretend her child is sick when he isn’t.” 

“Okay, but she doesn’t do that shit anymore.” Sure, he still used his inhaler, but that was just to make her happy. He knew it didn’t do anything. 

“Sometimes the mother will pretend her child is sick when he isn’t,” Stan repeated, tone even and careful, “but sometimes she’ll make him sick.” 

Bile rose in Eddie’s throat. “What the fuck are you saying?” 

“I think you know what I’m saying.” 

“You’re sick,” he whispered fiercely. “She would never do that to me.”

“Okay.” Stan leaned against a bookshelf, expression flat. “So what’s wrong with you, then?”

Eddie shrugged, starting to shiver in the cool air. 

“Have you been diagnosed with anything?” 

Eddie shook his head. “I have what my dad had.” 

Stan’s eyes widened. “What, cancer?” 

“He had a stomach condition.” He folded his arms. “He got sick a lot, but he kept doing bad things like drinking and staying out all night. Then he died.” 

“Is that what the doctors told you?” 

Eddie shrugged. 

“Have you even seen a doctor about this?” 

“Like I said. I have what my dad had. My mom took care of him for years and she knows what to do.”

“So you’ve never seen a doctor about this? Not even for a checkup or to get IV fluids?” 

He shook his head. 

Stan grabbed a handful of his curls at the base of his neck. “Tell me about what you and your dad have, please.” 

Eddie blinked. Stan never messed up his hair. “Uh, it’s a vomiting disorder that comes in, you know, cycles…” 

“Does it choose when it hits based on life events?” 

“Why would it do that, that makes no sense.” 

“Then why—" Stan clasped his hands together tightly. “—Why does it only happen when you go to do something your mom doesn’t want? We planned that camping trip last summer. The morning we were supposed to leave, you got sick. You were sick for Richie’s big sleepover and that weekend field trip to D.C., too. Baseball tryouts were last week. We were going to be on the team with Bill, but of course, you were sick.” 

Eddie balled his hands into fists. “So what?” 

“So, has it ever happened randomly? Or do you only get sick when your mom wants to control you?” 

“Stop it, stop it, _stop it_.” His mother wouldn’t do that to him. She just wouldn’t. 

Stan held up his hands in a frantic soothing motion. 

“I know you think you’re so fucking smart, but you don’t know anything about me or my mother!” Eddie could feel his face flushing hot. “I’m not a fucking psychology project, you asshole. I’m just sick.” 

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” he said. “I’m really worried about you. You weigh practically nothing, your face and neck are covered in petechiae, you look like you’re about to fall over…” 

“I have a vomiting disorder,” he said. “That’ll happen. I need to get to class.” 

Eddie tried to walk away, but Stan grabbed his arm and pulled him close. 

“Let’s try something, please.”

Eddie ripped his arm away, but otherwise remained still. 

“Richie’s having a sleepover this weekend. You haven’t been to one of his in years,” Stan said. “Ms. Mellon assigned a project while you were gone and I said I’d be your partner. It’ll at least take this week to do, so come over to my house and eat with my family. I’ll bring you breakfast in the mornings. Don’t eat or drink anything your mom gives you. Just to see if you can make it to the sleepover.” 

“Will that get you off my back?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank fuck.” Eddie sank to the ground and put his head between his knees. Stan dropped down next to him, radiating heat and the smell of fresh lemons. Eddie wanted him to go away, but…didn’t, also.


	3. Stan (The Past: Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: mild sickness and nausea
> 
> (note: if I ever miss a trigger warning, or if you would like me to label triggers that I haven't thought of, please feel free to let me know)

The rest of the morning passed in the same shitty way. Eddie had no idea what was happening in any of his classes. By the time the lunch bell rang, his head pounded in his ears. 

He let Pat—the lunch lady with the purple glasses who always gave Richie a hard time—put whatever she wanted on the tray, then sat between Ben and Stan at their usual table. 

As soon as he sat down, they all fell silent and stared at him like some shitty horror movie. What was he, a teenage werewolf? 

“Eddie,” Ben said after a beat. “You’re back. Feeling better?” 

Eddie stared hard at his tray. “Yup.” 

“Eddio-Spaghettio, my good fellow!” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie muttered, shooting a glare at Richie. He stopped short when he saw that Richie’s face was bright red and pinched. Next to him, Bill was so drained of color that his blue eyes took on an almost radioactive glow. 

Richie forced a smile. “I’m, uh, having a little get-together this weekend, only the coolest of the cool invited, you understand, but they had other plans, so can I count on you to come?” 

“I’ll…try.”

Richie wrung his hands, a jerking, nervous gesture. “Yeah, of course I totally understand if you can’t, I mean it is kinda last minute, and I know you can’t usually come, but—” 

“Alright,” Stan broke in, sounding bored. “Let Eddie eat in peace.” 

Richie’s mouth snapped shut. He stared down at his lap, strangely motionless. Bill hadn’t stopped staring. Ben stirred his mac n’ cheese, face angled to the wall. 

Stan mumbled under his breath, then snapped his fingers in front of Bill’s face. “That’s enough.” 

Bill blushed. “S-sorry. I’m g-glad you’re b-b…back,” he said, voice impossibly soft. 

Something inside Eddie shrunk. “It’s okay.”

Lunch was a pale, almost curdled mac n’ cheese, peas, and peaches in syrup. Nausea burned in Eddie’s gut, the smell alone a kind of hell. There was no way he could keep it down. He pushed up from the table and rushed to the trash, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. When everything was put away, he leaned his face against the cool cinderblock wall. 

School was supposed to be better than staying in bed. Every decision led to a fresh hell. 

“Hey.” 

Eddie started. “Are you stalking me, Stanley? That’s really weird.” 

Stan rolled his eyes. “Please. I finished eating and had to bus my tray, same as you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his curls. “You want to sneak back to the library with me?” 

“ _You_ , go out without a hall pass, boy scout?” 

Stan flushed. “I have a permanent library hall pass.” 

“They give those out?” 

“To…to library helpers. I reshelve books in my free period, okay? You in or not?” 

Eddie laughed, full in the belly. It burned, but in such a good way. “Lead the way, library boy.” 

—

By the time Eddie reached his locker at the end of the day, Stan was there, leaning against a wall. He was composed as ever, wrapped in a soft green jacket, khaki knapsack secure on both shoulders, but there was a disturbing downturn to his mouth. 

“I told the others to go ahead without us,” he said, shifting to his full height. “We can meet them later, if you want, but I need a snack.” 

Eddie nodded, hefting his backpack over a shoulder. “Let’s go.”

—

For the first time in his life, Eddie wished he was on the bus. As he lumbered down the sidewalk next to Stan, the sun beat down, razing his skin until he gasped for breath. Then it slipped behind a cloud, leaving him to shiver uncontrollably in the gentle breeze. 

He could practically feel Stan’s side-eye stare, so he kept his head down. If he had to watch someone feel sorry for him one more time, he was gonna put his hand through a fucking wall. 

The wind picked up. Eddie refused to shrink into his jacket. He was fine, damnit. He. Was. Fine. 

The cold seemed to sink into his bones, but that was okay. Cold was better than hot. This wasn’t even _cool_ for Maine, for fuck’s sake. Eddie clenched his teeth as they finally rounded the corner to Stan’s street. He quickened his pace until Stan had to try to keep up. 

“Where’s the fire?” 

“Sh—” Eddie’s teeth clattered painfully. “Sh-Shut up. Fuck.” He clenched every muscle in his body, but the shaking wouldn’t stop and his teeth wouldn’t quiet. He forced himself up the bush-lined path to Stan’s blue front door and let himself in the house. It was warmer, but he couldn’t stop shivering. 

“Hi boys!” Mrs. Uris strode out of the kitchen, her long dark-blond hair gathered into a high ponytail, lips painted pink. “How was your day?” 

“It was okay,” Stan said. “I got an ‘A’ on my Calculus test.” 

She grinned, ruffling his hair. “That’s what I like to hear.” She turned to Eddie. A brief shadow flitted across her face, but it didn’t stick long enough for interpretation. “Are there any snacks you’re in the mood for?”

“Not really,” he said, stomach already twisting. 

She smiled gently. “That’s alright. I’ve got just the thing.” She glanced at Stan. “Your father turned the furnace down already, so it’s a bit nippy in here. Don’t forget we keep the spare blankets with the linens.”

Stan took their coats, hung them on the beech coat tree, then gestured for Eddie to sit on the coach. He sunk down with a groan, rubbing his arms fruitlessly, gut burning with humiliation. 

“What kind of blankets do you like?”

“I don’t need anything,” he said through chattering teeth. 

Stan rolled his eyes. “I’m getting a blanket for me. It’ll look pretty weird if I’m the only one who has one.” 

“Fine.” He huffed. “I don’t like wool. Too itchy. Anything else is fine.” 

Stan came back with a blue and green afghan around his shoulders and a autumnal patchwork quilt in his arms, which he held out to Eddie. 

Eddie hesitated. “Is it…is it clean?” he asked, cringing. 

“Yes.” Stan paused. “We wash all our blankets in hot water and keep them on a dedicated shelf so they stay clean.” 

Eddie accepted the quilt and wrapped it around himself. Thick and soft, it smelled so good he wanted to stay inside it forever. Stan sat next to him. They weren’t touching, but Eddie could feel his warmth. A part of him wanted to close the gap, tuck his head into Stan’s shoulder, and sleep for a while. 

“Do you… _need_ things to be clean?” Stan asked, barely whispering.

Eddie bristled. “Why?” 

“Well because…” He flushed a light pink. “…because _I_ do.” 

Oh. “Yeah.” He blew out a long breath. “Me too.” 

Mrs. Uris came out with two bowls and a plate on a tray. “Some bananas and applesauce for you boys.” She bit her lip, some pink coming off on her teeth. “Eddie, do you need to call your mom?” 

Fuck. Eddie stood up so fast he had to grip the arm of the couch to keep from falling over. He ran to the kitchen, dialed the number. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Ma.” 

“Eddie-bear! Why aren’t you home? I’ve been worried sick waiting for you.” 

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He picked at a loose cuticle. “Stan and I have a big project for English we gotta do together, so I’m gonna have to go over to his house after school and stay for dinner for like the next week and a half or something.” 

“How big is your project?” 

“I dunno. I was sick. But Stan says it’s to build a whole model of something and write a paper.” 

Eddie’s ear filled with the wet noise of his mother sucking on her teeth. “You know, sweetie,” she said, “you’ve been so sick lately. Maybe I should call your teacher and get you out of this project. It’s just too much.” 

He took a deep breath. She meant well, she did, but he didn’t need to be babied. “That’s okay. I think this project will be good for me.” 

“I don’t know…” 

“Stan and me’ll just sit around and work. It’ll help me recover, you know? I’m not…” He clenched his teeth. “I’m not ready to hang out with my other friends, yet.” 

“You know you could just stay home, sweetheart.” 

“I need to get out of the house sometimes, Ma.” 

She huffed. “Fine. Put Mrs. Uris on the line. I need to talk to her about your dietary restrictions.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I’ll go get her.” 

“Eddie-bear, aren’t you forgetting something?” 

He suppressed a sigh. “I love you, Mama.” 

Leaving Mrs. Uris to the phone, Eddie trudged to the couch and tucked himself back into the quilt. Stan stared for a long moment, then handed over a bowl of applesauce. 

“It’s really good,” he said. “Mom makes it herself.” 

Eddie took a bite. It was thick, chunky, and well-spiced. His mom usually bought the unsweetened smooth kind, because it was ‘better for his digestion.’ 

Mrs. Uris strode in, pulling down her sweater sleeves, mouth a straight line. “How’s the applesauce?” 

“’S great,” Eddie said around a spoonful.

“I’m glad you think so.” She grinned. “You’ll have to come over next year and try it on some latkes.” 

“I’d like that.” 

She smoothed Stan’s curls back from his forehead. He made a face, but didn’t duck. “I’ll be in the den. You boys let me know if you need anything.” 

Eddie sat back, listening to the clatter of Stan’s spoon against the bowl. When the applesauce had gone and the bananas reduced to peels, they got to work. 

—

Two hours later, project chatter had thinned to silence, punctuated only by the quiet clamor of Mrs. Uris working in the kitchen. Eddie slouched in his quilt, so close to Stan he could smell the apples on his breath. 

“How are you so warm?” Eddie murmured. “’S like sitting next to the radiator.” 

Stan grimaced and leaned away. “Sorry.” 

“No.” Eddie yanked him back by the sleeve. “It’s okay.” 

Stan settled, eyes half-lidded and dark in the dim light. “You know I—” The lock rattled. Stan sat up ramrod straight, the afghan falling from his shoulders in a heap around his hips. Reflexively, Eddie followed, sitting up so quickly that the room spun. 

Stan stared at the door, straightening the papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table in quick, shaking jerks. When the door finally opened, he switched course, grabbed a notebook, and began writing in his brisk, neat script. 

Mr. Uris stepped into the house, closed the door, and unbuttoned his long beige coat. When it was hanging from the coat tree, brushed straight, he walked slowly into the family room, hands clasped behind his back. “Hello, boys,” he said, smiling at Eddie. 

“Hi, Mr. Uris.” 

“Hello, Dad.” Stan’s voice was stilted, formal. When his back straightened even further, Eddie wondered how his spine didn’t snap. 

Mr. Uris peered at the papers stacked neatly on the coffee table. “What are you working on?” 

“A scaled model of an early medieval castle.” 

“Why?” 

“English assignment,” he said, eyes glued to his notebook. 

“English?” 

“We’re reading _Le Morte d’Arthur_ and _The Canterbury Tales_.” 

“Ah.” He walked around the couch, peering at Stan all the while. “Don’t get glue on the carpet,” he said finally. 

“We won’t.” 

When Mr. Uris’s even footsteps faded down the hall, Stan flopped forward like a puppet with the strings cut, dropping the notebook and burying his face in his hands. 

A heaviness settled in Eddie’s stomach. “Are…are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

“Stan—” 

“ _Eddie_.” His voice was raw like that summer, like that summer when he was lost in the sewers and almost…when Eddie _found_ — 

Short, quick footsteps echoed down the hall. Stan wiped his eyes and sat up just as his mother poked her head in the archway. “Dinner’s ready, boys.”

Stan stood, squared his shoulders, and strode from the room. Eddie followed, shivering a little without the quilt. Thankfully, dinner was a hot, golden chicken soup with some sort of dumpling. 

“Matzo balls,” Stan explained as he sat. 

After the blessings, they all dug in. The soup was rich and hearty, the matzo balls tasted almost like saltine crackers. It pooled in his stomach, warming him from the inside out. Eddie could have lived in a bowl of that soup and said so. 

Mrs. Uris laughed. “I can give you the recipe, if you like.” 

“That’d be great, but I haven’t ever cooked or anything before.” 

“Really?” 

He shook his head. “My mom…she doesn’t like me to.” 

Her smile faded. “That’s alright, Eddie. You can come over any time and I would be happy to teach you.”

“Really?” 

“Of course.” She smiled again. “Stanley doesn’t like to cook with his mother anymore. It would be wonderful to have company in the kitchen again.” 

Mr. Uris cleared his throat and set down his spoon. “Stanley will help his mother in the kitchen, won’t he?” 

“Yeah.” Stan stared down at his plate. 

“It’s okay,” his mother said. “He always helps when I ask.” 

“You shouldn’t have to ask.” His tone was even, but there was a thread of warning there, like when Eddie’s mom was about to forbid him from leaving bed. 

Stan stood, gathered his dishes, and disappeared into the kitchen. 

“Really, Donald?” Mrs. Uris said. “He’s a good boy.” 

“He has to learn, Andrea.” Mr. Uris picked up his spoon, took a bite. “The world doesn’t revolve around him.” 

Eddie looked down at his empty bowl. “May I be excused?”

“Of course, Eddie.” Mrs. Uris smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. 

Eddie gathered his dishes and took them into the warm kitchen, setting them next to the sink. Stan didn’t look up from his suds and water, but tipped his head to a blue kitchen towel hanging from a rod in the corner. Eddie grabbed it and began rinsing and drying the clean dishes, his shoulder pressed to Stan’s upper arm. 

When Eddie was drying their last dish, Mrs. Uris appeared in the doorway. 

“Thank you boys for doing your dishes,” she said. 

Stan looked down. “I can get yours, too.” 

“That’s okay.” She ran her fingers through Stan’s curls. When he didn’t look at her, she cupped his chin and gently raised his face. “You are becoming a _mensch_ , my son,” she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, color rising on his cheeks. 

She clicked her tongue and let him go. “You should drive Eddie home now. It’s getting dark.” 

He nodded and strode from the room without so much as a backwards glance. 

Eddie shifted, awkward. “Thanks for having me, Mrs. Uris.”

“Of course.” She pulled him into a quick, hard hug. “You are _always_ welcome here.” 

Eddie’s face heated, but he couldn’t help smiling. 

—

The car—a beige 1985 Honda Accord—was blissfully hot by the time Eddie slid into the passenger seat. 

“My mom won’t like you driving me,” he said. 

“I’ll drop you off around the corner.” 

They lapsed into silence, houses passing by in the darkness. Eddie wondered about other people, how so many lives could happen at once, but a guy could still feel alone. 

Stan cleared his throat, breaking into Eddie’s thoughts. “I’m sorry about my dad.” 

“It’s alright.” 

“It’s not.” 

“Okay.” Eddie could almost hear the gears grinding in Stan’s brain. “Do you want to—” 

“—Nothing I do will ever be good enough,” Stan said in a rush. “He’s supposed to care about me finding my own path, but he doesn’t. He wants me to be perfect, but I’m not perfect. He knows I can’t be perfect. He’s a rabbi, for fuck’s sake!” 

Eddie blinked. It had been years since he’d seen Stan so upset. 

“Everyone’s always saying ‘Stanley, you’re so lucky you have Rabbi Uris for your father. He’s helped me through so much.’ What the fuck is he helping _me_ through? He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care.” Stan turned into an empty parking lot and braked hard, throwing the car into park. 

“I’m sorry.” Eddie reached out and squeezed his shoulder. 

Stan leaned into the touch, cheeks wet and flushed. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) As is likely evident, I am not Jewish. I researched to the best of my ability, but it is certainly possible that I made mistakes. If you see any, please feel free to let me know. I care a lot, so you would be doing me a favor. 
> 
> 2) I am not sure what Muschietti was going for by changing Donald Uris's characterization. I suspect he wanted all the losers to have terrible parents, which is not accurate from what I understand. Thankfully, he left Andrea alone!
> 
> 3) As always, I am [@readinglikechickensoup](https://readinglikechickensoup.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


	4. Stan (The Present: Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific TW: nudity, explicit body description, shared bathing, sexual references, touch aversion, intrusive thoughts, mild misuse of medication, insecurity, referenced homophobic slur, blasphemy, swearing

"Let's do it," Eddie said. "I want to."

Stan watched him for a moment, then gave a small smile. “Who would you like to start with?” 

“You,” he said quickly. 

Stan raised his eyebrows. 

“It makes sense! How can you help me if I can’t touch you? And I…you’re so clean.” It had to be Stan. He would understand. He wouldn’t get hurt when Eddie failed. 

Stan chuckled. “Good points.” 

“We don’t have to if you don’t wanna.” 

“Why would I offer if I didn’t want to?” 

“I don’t know!” Eddie threw out his hands. “You could have ulterior motives.” 

Stan crossed his arms. “Like what?” 

“Like…maybe you’re tired of sharing a room with me, and you’re hoping I’ll fail and get my own place.” 

His expression flattened. “Is that what you really think?” 

“No,” Eddie muttered, hot shame flooding his stomach. 

“Are you planning to move out?” 

“It was just an example.” 

Stan sighed. “I want to help you. No matter what it takes.” 

“Sounds like a bad job.” 

He shrugged. “I’m used to bad jobs. Richie tries out all his new material on me.”

Eddie smiled, gut finally loosening. 

Stan patted the bed near where Eddie’s hand hung. “When would you like to start?”

“Now?” He would never find the courage again. 

“You’re moving into my bed until further notice,” Stan said, voice flat as his expression. “Get your pillow and whatever else you need to sleep.” 

Eddie stared at his clean, comfortable bed, one foot tapping against the wooden floor. Anything he brought over would be dirty as soon as it touched Stan’s bed. 

“Now, Eddie.” 

Moving quickly, he chose a scratchy, middle blanket and spread it over his side of Stan’s duvet, then placed a pillow that had gone a little too flat at the top. Everything else was too important to spare. 

“That everything?” 

He nodded tightly, already itchy. 

Stan stood, folded his blanket neatly, then gestured for Eddie to follow him.

Anxiety crept like a fog up his spine, making his knees weak, pinning him in place. He pictured laying down in the mud outside and having to lick the smudged fridge door. “Where are we going?” 

“Shower. You’re gonna wash me.” 

Relief flooded Eddie’s belly, colored with a little spark of heat. Thank god they had the master, and thus the en-suite. It only made sense, given their particularities and the fact they required two separate queen beds. 

Still, Eddie often thought of Ben, Bev, and Richie in their huge custom bed and Mike and Bill in their king. What would it be like to share a bed with someone every night? Even before his mother died, he rarely slept with anyone else. 

Maybe it was time to find out. 

Stan locked the en-suite door behind them, then stripped mechanically, methodically. He hung each item of clothing on padded satin hangers in the extra closet. Honestly, Eddie was surprised Stan wasn’t dry clean only. 

When his undershirt, socks, and underwear were folded and placed in the hamper, he quirked a small smile at Eddie and turned on the shower. 

Stan’s nakedness was almost shocking. His curls shone in the sharp vanity light, a nutty, nearly brown blonde that brought out the gold in his skin. Lower, Stan’s well-defined collarbone gave way to the gentle slope of his chest, the dark swirls of chest hair curling around each nipple, the planes of his stomach down to the mound of him, hairless and soft between thick thighs.

Eddie shucked his clothes and tossed them in the hamper. He dressed expensively, but never anything he had to trust someone else to clean. His suits remained bagged and unworn in the cedar closet. 

They stepped into the water, so hot it felt like burning, just the way Eddie liked it. When they were wet Stan stood out of the spray, arms hanging down at his sides. “Clean away.’’

“Oh, um, what shampoo do you like?” There were five different bottles arranged neatly on the shelf. 

“I don’t usually use shampoo. It dries my hair and makes it fall out faster.” 

Eddie gaped. “How does your hair get clean?” 

“I scrub it with conditioner.” He looked over the bottles. “I shampoo maybe biyearly to clarify.” 

Eddie shut his mouth. He knew it couldn’t be dirty if Stan was doing it, but still. 

“I have very dry, very curly hair, okay? It requires specialized attention.” He pointed to an expensive-looking bottle. “You can use this if you want. I’m due.” 

Eddie grabbed the bottle and squirted out a palmful. Stan’s mouth twisted into a small frown, but he bent slightly to allow access. 

He had been allowed to touch Stan’s hair before, of course. But never like this. Never to wash away the product that sculpted his curls. Never to get to know the hills and valleys of his skull under the shifting rug of his scalp.

The shampoo was moisturizing; Eddie felt a patina of… _something_ building up on his knuckles. He took a deep breath and willed his heart to stop pounding. There was soap right next to him. He could wash his hands any time and Stan wouldn’t get offended. 

Stan groaned softly, a pleasure noise. 

Eddie smiled. “Your hair is so soft.” 

A flush rose on his cheeks. “I try to take care of it.” 

“You take care of everything.” Eddie scraped his nails along Stan’s scalp. “Of everyone. Without you nothing would get done.” 

Stan reached up and covered one of Eddie’s hands with his own. The touch was brief, but crawled all the same. “Without you we would forget to take care of ourselves.” 

“I don’t think so.” Eddie stepped back and grabbed the body wash. It wasn’t antibacterial, but it would do until he could get to the sink. 

“I know so.” Stan stepped under the spray and rinsed his hair. “Do you remember Bill’s accident last year?” 

“When he bruised his fucking knee on a dough vat at the pizza shop?” When Stan stepped back, Eddie rinsed his hands. 

“Yes. What do you think he would have done if you didn’t bully him into going to Urgent Care and filing for Workman’s Compensation?” 

Eddie shrugged and worked a rich oat conditioner into Stan’s hair. 

“You know Bill as well as I do. He would have worked through the pain until he was too bad to deal with. Then, he’d do something crazy to fix it that would only make things worse.” 

“His asshole boss still dragged him to court.” 

“That’s because he pretended to be okay and downplayed the injury—which he would have done for a lot longer if not for you. And he won.” 

Once the conditioner was rinsed and Eddie’s hands were washed, he squirted facial cleanser on his palm. 

Stan closed his eyes. “In circles, please.” 

Eddie gathered the cream on his fingers, then slid them in tight circles across the smooth of Stan’s forehead, then down the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got a little bump. Right there, in the middle.” 

He chuckled. “I know.” 

“I didn’t.” Eddie traced Stan’s bird-thin cheekbones and the sparse stubble across his jaw, then lower, to the quick flutter of his pulse, over the sweet curve of his Adam’s apple, into the dip of his collarbone. 

He was so close. Stan’s lips, thin, but well-formed and surely soft, were right there. Eddie could lean forward and— _kissing spreads more germs than licking a toilet seat._

Eddie yanked his hand back so hard it slammed into the wall. Stan startled. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping under the spray to rinse his face. 

“Yeah.” Eddie squirted more body wash on his hands and scrubbed at his palms with his nails. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing.” 

“So what? You spontaneously decided to punch the wall?” Stan wiped the water out of his eyes and fixed Eddie with a stare. “I’d appreciate it if you told me the truth.” 

Eddie stared at the tops of his feet. He wished he was dry and clothed and in his own bed. 

Stan sighed. “I’m sorry for pushing. You can tell me when you’re ready.” He handed Eddie a washcloth. 

Eddie squirted a palmful of body wash on it and scrubbed Stan’s chest and back until his skin glowed pink, then scrubbed some more. When he’d finished his arms and hands as well, he paused. The crotch was next. Stan’s genitals were soft, pink, and completely vulnerable. 

Eddie remembered the last time they’d fucked, over a year ago. Stan topped and had moved so slowly inside him it took them an hour to orgasm. Eddie cried when he came. He survived that, why not this? 

Stan made a rough noise, like a smothered laugh. “Why are you frowning at my penis?” 

Eddie’s face heated. “I was thinking about how to clean you. Soap is really bad for the urethra and anus.” 

Stan smiled a little. “You’re always so concerned with our health.” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“You can use soap today. Once won’t hurt, aside from a little dryness.” 

Eddie nodded. He took a fresh washcloth from the stack near the shower and squirted a tiny amount of soap on it. He scrubbed the cloth over Stan’s pubic bone, where the hair would start if he didn’t wax. Stan’s penis was half-erect, so was still very soft and spongey. Eddie cradled it in his palm and washed it as gently as possible, then moved to the delicate folds of his sack and underneath, stopping halfway through his perineum. 

“It’s okay,” Stan said. “I’m clean and we have soap right there.” 

Eddie’s face got hotter. “Can you…will you please bend over?” 

“Sure.” Face blank, Stan turned and bent in half, legs straight, hands braced on the tops of his feet, completely exposed. 

All the breath left Eddie’s lungs. Slightly dizzy, he ran the cloth between Stan’s cheeks, avoiding the pink furl of him. God. He could grab some lube and disappear into the tight heat of him, become him. Eddie remembered. He remembered everything— _disgusting f—_

“Are you almost done?” Stan’s voice broke through the thought. 

“Yes, I’m done.” 

As Stan straightened, Eddie disposed of the washcloth and grabbed the soap. “How did you get so flexible?” 

“Yoga.” Stan’s eyes raked over Eddie’s body, mouth blooming into a full smile. A rare smile. “Does that do something for you?”

Eddie looked down, willed his erection away. “I’m sick, not dead.” 

Stan’s smile disappeared. “I know.” 

Eddie’s chest hurt. He rinsed his hands, scrubbed Stan’s legs and feet with a third washcloth, then sent him away while he cranked up the water temperature and scoured himself. 

When he got out, Stan was dressed and blow drying his hair.

Eddie toweled off, watching Stan scrunch his curls with the end of the dryer. “Doesn’t that hurt your hair?” 

“It’s a diffuser. Makes the heat even and less harsh.” When he finished, he unplugged the dryer, wrapped the cord and packed it in a drawer. “I know it’s early, but I’m exhausted. Do you mind if we go to bed?” 

—

Eddie hovered next to Stan’s bed. He knew it was clean, knew he wouldn’t have to touch anything but his own blanket and pillow, but he couldn’t convince himself to get in. 

“What are you thinking?” Stan asked, lounging against the pillows on his side. 

“Nothing.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Eddie, I would never force you to open up, but it would be so much easier if you did.” 

Eddie sighed, feeling defeated. “I’m wondering why it has to be your bed.” 

Stan bit his lip. “We can do your bed if you want, but I thought it would be easier if you had an untouched place.” 

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” Eddie cringed inwardly at the thought of Stan’s hair gel in his sheets. 

“I thought so.” 

Eddie stared at the bed for a few more minutes. Stan watched him, eyebrow quirked. 

“I’m having trouble getting in.” 

Stan took the book off his nightstand and opened it. “Best to jump in. Try to make it as impulsive as possible.” 

Eddie stared at Stan. He hadn’t jumped in a bed since he was little, before he was sufficiently afraid of cracking his skull open on the floor. Stan kept reading, unconcerned. How the fuck was that helpful advice? 

“Good book?” 

“Yep.” 

“Do you have any other wisdom to share?” he asked, barely able to keep is voice even and pleasant. 

“Nope.” 

“Fine.” Eddie stalked to the door, turned around, and took a running leap into the bed. He landed with an enormous thump that knocked the book out of Stan’s hands. 

He grinned sharply, vindicated, and lay down on his blanket. It occurred to him that he had chosen his thinnest, oldest one. Germs could travel on surfaces, between threads. 

_Your friends might look healthy, but carry viruses that would be deadly to your immune system. You’re so fragile, Eddie-bear…_

His skin crawled. He needed another shower, anything to clean the oily poison of another person off him. Why did he think this was a good idea? 

Stan set the book on the nightstand and shut off the light. 

Eddie closed his eyes. “You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?” he blurted. 

“No,” Stan said firmly. “I never would.” 

“I know that.” 

“Deep, slow breaths, Eddie. You’ll get through this. I promise.” 

Stan counted out loud while Eddie breathed: in for four, hold for four, out for eight. Over and over again until his heart finally quieted and they lapsed into silence. 

“Stanley,” Eddie said. “What if I can’t sleep?”

Stan hummed, turned the light back on, and rummaged in his nightstand drawer. He produced a blister pack of pills and handed them over. 

Eddie stared. “You keep diphenhydramine in your nightstand?” 

“I have sensitive skin.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Sure, but it’ll help you sleep. You can’t have it every day, but I think one pill is acceptable for your first night.” 

Eddie’s stomach tightened.

“None of the blisters have been opened, you can check. It’s completely your decision.” He turned off the light. “I’m going to sleep now, but if you need me please wake me up.” 

Stan’s breathing deepened quickly. Eddie listened jealously as the minutes ticked over into hours. He needed to sleep, to calm the ants itching under his skin, but he couldn’t. He took a pill. Finally, exhaustion overtook him, squashing even his mother’s voice, allowing him to sink into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the slow, somewhat short update. I got sick (a stomach thing) and was slow to recover, then my in-laws decided to move across the country. Really, just lots of unneeded stuff atop the usual horror of the holidays. 
> 
> Anyway, it is very helpful to have this to return to and I hope you are enjoying so far :)


	5. Stan (The Present: Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific TW: Panic Attack, Extreme Dissociation, Germaphobia, Sickness, Colds & Flu, Touch Aversion, OCD, Swearing, Dubiously Consented Squish 
> 
> (If I ever omit a TW that you need, please let me know. I will correct my mistake and ensure I do not omit it in the future. Your comfort and safety is important to me.)
> 
> **Note: Bev features pretty heavily in this chapter. In this universe, she and Eddie are romantically involved, but do not engage in sex together unless it's a group thing (and even then...). In this chapter, it's pretty platonic, but if any Edverly squicks you, this may not be for you and that is okay.**

In his dreams, Eddie was in bed. The one he shared with everyone, because there were only two bedrooms in the apartment and they were small. Two kings pushed together in the master, so tight against each wall you had to crawl in at the foot. There was enough room for only one king in the other. 

It was lawless. Everyone slept in both beds, depending on the night. Sometimes, they all squeezed onto the two king beds. It was not comfortable, and Richie always complained about being on the crack, but no one cared. It was like piling into the back of Mike’s pickup to look at the stars. They were twenty-two and living together still felt like a sleepover. 

To Eddie, life still felt like a revelation. 

In the morning, he had an interview for a real job that would pay good money. He’d spent the entire evening pacing and ranting and practicing his professional smile, which looked more like a pained grimace. Finally, Mike had suggested they claim the master before Bill, Ben, and Stan, who were all over each other on the half-broken loveseat, got there first. 

They prepared for bed and crawled under the sheets, which were worn deliciously soft from weekly washes and countless nights of restless bodies. Eddie liked to sleep on his back, so Mike curled like an apostrophe into one side of Eddie’s body, face buried, warm and scratchy, in Eddie’s neck. 

Eddie couldn’t sleep, but that was nothing new. (A part of him knew, distantly, that he _was_ asleep, that the apartment with its water-stained hallway and suspiciously beige carpet was sold and gone. That he lived in a house—a nice, clean house—that was so big they each have their own bed, if they wanted it. So big he could go days without a meaningful conversation. Even Stan, his roommate, left him alone most of the time.) 

The bed dipped and Bev tucked into Eddie’s other side, her head on his chest, her sweet-smelling hair against his cheek. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

Later, Richie tumbled in to curl behind her, his forehead pressed into Eddie’s temple, his arm heavy and furred in the hollow below Bev’s ribs, across Eddie’s stomach, hand clutching Mike’s bare hip. 

Eddie’s body grew heavy. He searched for his anxiety, for the near-constant panic clawing at his gut, under his skin, and found that it was gone, or at least, hidden.

Warm, held, he breathed out long and slow. 

—

Someone was stroking Eddie’s hair in gentle, even strokes, bringing him slowly to consciousness. 

Exhausted, he turned his face into the pillow—which was a person. Mike? Suffused with contentment, he snuggled in and was rewarded with the scrape of nails across the back of his neck. 

“Eddie,” Stan whispered, his warm, sleep-sour breath washing over Eddie’s face. That didn’t make any sense. Stan had gone to bed with Ben and Bill…

Eddie sat straight up, stomach burning. He had rolled over to Stan’s side of the bed during the night, pressing against Stan’s side and…using his shoulder as a pillow, going by the wet patch on Stan’s sleep shirt. 

“I’m so sorry.” Eddie jumped out of bed. 

“No.” Stan sat up, eyes sleep bleary, hair in a frizzed disarray. “It’s okay.” 

“No it’s not! I fucking drooled all over you. Do you know how much bacteria is present in saliva?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then don’t tell me it’s okay!” Eddie scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I could get you sick.” 

Sighing, Stan crawled across the bed until he was kneeling at the edge. Like this, Eddie could see the razor thin part of his hair at his crown. 

“You won’t like this, but listen to me, please.” 

Eddie pressed his thumb into the soft underside of his wrist, panic spiking. Is this where Stan told him he was a helpless case? That if he couldn’t shape up he would have to pack his bags and get out? 

“I don’t care if you drool all over me.” Eddie opened his mouth, but Stan raised his hand. “ _Listen_. It’s gross, sure. But waking up to you, touching you, makes me happier than I’ve been in a long time.” 

Eddie’s gut twisted into a knot. 

“Richie isn’t the only one who misses you.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to guilt trip you. But you have to know that.” 

Eddie wanted to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing it on purpose.”

Stan pressed his hands between his thighs. “I know.” 

Silence stretched between them like a film. Eddie knew there were things he should say, stuff they needed to talk about, but he just…he just couldn’t. The crawling under his skin, the smell of Stan on his shirt—it was too much. “I’m gonna shower.” 

“I’m afraid not.” Stan arched a brow. “You’re gonna keep me all over you, all day.” 

Eddie shivered. “But—” 

“You can wash your hands and face. That’s it.” Stan’s expression softened. “Getting better is hard. I know.” 

—

“Fucking bastard.” Eddie grumbled, deleting data from a column with staccato punches of his finger against the key. 

“Everything okay, Edward?” Julia paused at the entrance to his cubicle, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, nose bright red, philtrum shiny with snot. 

He tensed to suppress a shudder. “Yes.” 

“You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin,” she commented, blowing on her drink. 

“Mmm.” Some of the expelled air reached Eddie, settling in cool droplets on his face. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. 

She stepped into his cubicle and leaned against his desk, close enough that Eddie could smell eucalyptus and, faintly, lavender. “Is Dumpster Derek bothering you again? I can get rid of him for you if you want.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, breathing slow and shallow. “I’m just having some trouble with this report.” 

“Let me see.” She set down her mug leaned down over his shoulder, one hand braced on his arm rest, a lock of her smooth, dark brown hair falling into his face. “Looks like you forgot a number right here.” 

“Thank you,” he forced out, trying to keep his voice light, pleasant even as the room begun to spin. 

“No problem.” Her voice sounded thick, phlegmy. She straightened and coughed into the crook of her arm, hacking and horrible. 

Eddie shrunk into his chair and held out a tissue. When she finished coughing, she took the tissue and blew her nose like a trumpet. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” he said brightly, standing as slowly and normally as possible. “Sorry to run. I promised I’d call my partner.” 

“Tell Beverly I said hello!” Julia said, shuffling out of his cubicle. 

“I sure will.” 

—

Eddie left his office building, walked briskly down the adjacent alley, and punched the wall so hard it left a smear of pale flesh against the brick. Then he dowsed his hands in sanitizer (rubbing absently into the deep scrape on his knuckles) and called Beverly. 

“Hi Eddie,” she answered, voice nearly obscured by a low whir and the murmur of voices in the background. “Everything okay?” 

“Of course everything’s okay. Why wouldn’t everything be okay?” 

“You’re at work,” she said. “You don’t normally call when you’re at work.” 

“Do you remember Julia from work?” he asked, kicking the toe of his brown loafer against the pavement. 

“I guess.” 

“She wanted to me to say hi to you from her.” 

“Okay.” A smooth click and the background noise disappeared. “Why did she want to say hello to me?” 

“Because I said I was calling you.” Eddie watched noontime traffic pass by the mouth of the alley, each car with at least one person, each person filled with disease. 

“That makes sense. And why are you calling me?” 

“Because I told Julia I was.” 

The pause that followed was filled with the sharp flick of a lighter and the smack of her lips against the butt of a cigarette. He shuddered, at attention. “I thought you quit smoking.” 

“I started again a few months ago.” He could almost see her nonchalant shrug, the corner of her mouth dipping into a frown. 

“Well, you should quit again. That stuff’s fucking vile. It’ll kill you.” 

“I know.” She took another smacking drag. “Why did you tell Julia you were going to call me?” 

“I needed an excuse to go outside,” he admitted, squirting more sanitizer into his palm and rubbing it on his cheek. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I just needed a break.” 

“Eddie. Please.” She sounded tired, like all those late nights in the old apartment, when she would scrape together designs and samples until almost morning, trying and failing to please her old boss. 

He hated making her sound like that. 

“It’s just…she was close. And sick. I couldn’t breathe.” He sighed. “I punched a wall.” 

“You haven’t done that in a long time.” 

“I know.” 

“Maybe you should come home. Take some of that sick time you never use.” 

“But I’m not sick.” 

“Just think about it,” she said. The background noise started up again. “I have to go back to work. I love you.” 

“Me too.” 

He flipped his phone closed, slipped it in his pocket and took a deep breath of (relatively) clean outside air. He could do this.

—

Eddie pushed open the door to his office. Coughing, sniffling, and the blowing of noses wrapped around him like a chorus. The air was balmy and thick with the smell of phlegm. Eddie gagged and half ran to his boss’s office. 

At the door, he straightened and rapped on the doorframe. 

“Ah, Edward,” Geoffrey said, leaning back in his plush leather chair. “What can I do for you?” 

“I…um.” Eddie cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I need to go home.”

“You do realize this whole month is blacked out. No call offs, no appointments, no leaving early.”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s in your contract,” Geoffrey said. “This is one of the busiest times of year.” 

Eddie’s stomach churned. “I’m really sorry. I don’t feel well at all.” 

“Neither does anyone else in this office.” Geoffrey chuckled, tapping his fountain pen against the shiny top of his cherry desk. “Do you really want everyone to have to pick up your slack? That your idea of teamwork?” 

“No, sir.” 

“What’s wrong with you, anyway?” 

“Headache,” Eddie muttered. “It’s nothing.” 

“That’s the spirit.” He turned back to his computer. 

Hollow, like he’d been scooped out with a spoon, Eddie returned to his cubicle and performed his ten step sanitization process, flinching with every sniffle and cough from his coworkers. 

—

By the end of the day, Eddie was shaking. He shut down his computer and sanitized every inch of his cubicle, down to the threaded cracks in his patchy black pleather chair. 

“I hope you feel better, Edward,” Julia said as she passed. 

“Thank you,” he said. “You too.” 

Eddie took the stairs out of the office, each step more painful that the last. At the bottom of the seventh flight, he was soaked in sweat, breath shallow and desperate. The world seemed to be at the other end of a tube, far away and pinprick tiny. 

He stumbled into the parking lot, into his car. He looked at the line at the mouth of the lot, waiting to join the thick spread of rush-hour traffic. Black spots rose in his already limited vision and he couldn’t breathe. 

He buried his face in his arms, against the steering wheel. Was this how he died? 

Distantly, a phone rang. It was coming from his pocket. Why was it coming from his pocket? He pulled it out and flipped it open, fingers stiff with cold. “Hello?” 

“Hey, where are you?” Bev asked. 

“In the parking lot.”

“Did you have to work late?”

“No.” 

“It’s almost seven.” 

“What?” He glanced at his watch. “Oh. I thought it was still four-thirty.” 

She paused for so long Eddie thought he was imagining the conversation. He could be dreaming. Or maybe he was the one who wasn’t real. 

“Sweetheart, we’re coming to get you.” 

“That’s okay. I’ll just drive home.” 

“Eddie,” she said, voice firm, “Me and Richie are already on our way. You stay put.” 

“Oh.” He sat back, breathed out long and slow. “Will you drive my car home?” 

“Of course.” She clicked her tongue. “We’ll be there soon. Why don’t you tell me some things you can see?” 

“It’s pretty dark,” he admitted. “But I can see the steering wheel.” 

“That’s great. Describe it for me?” 

He told her about its creamy color and how his thumbs had worn a little dent in each side. 

“Oh yeah? Does your steering wheel have a logo on it? I can’t remember.” 

He said that it did, but it was a little chipped with age and could definitely use a shine. He’d have to do that on his day off. 

“And how does it feel?” 

It was smooth and soft with age, with gentle hills and valleys for his fingers. 

“You’re doing great, Eddie,” she said. “We just pulled into the parking lot. Can you hear Richie’s car?” 

“Tell Richie I’m changing the oil this weekend. That sounds sad.” 

“You can tell him yourself. We’re here.” And so there they were. Bev rapped on his window gently, a smile on her face. He unlocked the car and she opened the door. 

“Don’t touch me,” he warned, using what Richie called the ‘oh shit’ handle to pull himself out of the car. “I’m covered in germs.” 

“I won’t,” she assured him, taking a step back. “Do you want to ride home with me or Richie?” 

“You.” Her face, round and soft and freckled, was the only thing he could make his eyes focus on. “Richie’s a terrible driver.” 

He clocked Richie’s outrage, but it was like trying to listen from behind glass or underwater. You could get an idea of what was going on, but the specifics were lost. 

“Come on,” Bev said, “let’s get you situated.” 

Like a child, he followed her to the passenger side and let her open the door for him. When she slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, she cranked up the heat and reminded him to put on his seatbelt. 

As the car moved out of the parking lot, a drop of fear splashed in Eddie’s gut. Something was wrong. “What’s happening to me?” 

“I don’t know for sure,” Bev admitted, merging smoothly into traffic. “I think you might have had one of your bad panic attacks.” 

“Oh,” he said. “That makes sense.” 

“Do you want to talk about it? You seemed pretty freaked out earlier.” 

Julia, their call, seemed like years ago. “Geoffrey made me stay.” 

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “I’m sorry.” 

He shrugged and looked out the window. “He’s running a business, not a daycare.” 

“You deserve better.” 

Eddie couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so they lapsed into silence. The smear of the outside world made him dizzy, so he looked at Bev. Her hair, up in a short, messy ponytail, glowed a soft red in the streetlights. He tried to focus on it, on her, but kept slipping away, like a drowning man clawing at ice. 

“You used to talk about starting your own business,” she said. 

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” 

“Think about it,” she said, pulling into the garage. “It might help minimize your misery.” 

“I’m not miserable.” 

She stared at him, blue eyes wide and shiny. “Sweetheart, you make _Bill_ seem like a naturally happy person these days. You make _Richie_ seem well-adjusted.” 

“That’s fucking mean, Beverly.” 

“It’s fucking true, Edward.” She killed the engine, pressed the button to shut the garage door. “C’mon.” 

Richie was waiting just inside the door, face ashen, mouth turned down at the edges. 

“How’d you beat us?” Eddie asked. 

He shrugged. “Beaverly’s a grandma.” 

“Says Mr. Seven Speeding Tickets,” Bev shot back, folding her arms across her chest. “We were talking about how he had a hard day at work.” 

“Yeah?” 

“It was fine.” 

Richie closed the gap between them. They weren’t quite touching, but Eddie could feel the heat pouring off Richie’s body. “What happened, Spaghetti?” 

“Nothing.” 

Richie pinched Eddie’s earlobe between his fingers. “Eds.” 

Eddie pulled back, ripping his ear out of Richie’s grip. The pain was like striking a match over gunpowder. “Fuck you.” 

“E—” 

“Everyone is fucking sick at work. And fucking Julia came into my cubicle and she breathed on me and she touched me and coughed and blew her nose and then I had to go outside and Bev told me to come home, but Geoffrey wouldn’t let me go no matter what I said and I had to finish the day and then I don’t know.” 

Eddie’s breaths were coming in fast, shallow spurts. He was too big for his skin, soon he would shuck it and float away. 

“Do you…” Richie swallowed. “Can I squish you?” 

Eddie thought Richie might be able to pack him back down to size, keep him tethered. Then, his stomach gave a sharp, painful twist. “I’m covered in germs. I’ll get you sick.” 

“I don’t care.” Richie took a slow step forward.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Richie’s eyes hardened. “You won’t.” 

Something wet landed on Eddie’s collarbone. Absently, he reached up to touch his face and found that he was crying. Richie made a low noise and scooped him into his arms. 

“Eds.” 

“No. Richie! Fuck.” Eddie tried to push him away, but Richie only squeezed tighter, backing him into the wall and pressing into him with his whole body. 

“Eds…Eddie, _baby_. You’re okay. I promise it’ll be okay.” 

No one could promise that. He wanted to protest, wanted to push Richie far away. But the pressure was correcting his edges, packing him like playdough into its plastic cylinder. He found he liked the rumble of Richie’s voice against his skin, and so buried his head in Richie’s throat. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the pressure and heat from his body, his distinctive _smell_ worked into Eddie’s brain, soothing, correcting. 

He shook himself free and Richie let him go. 

“There you are,” he said, smiling crookedly. 

“Yeah.” Eddie found that he was more solid than before, though fraying. 

“Do you—” 

The front door opened and Stan walked in. He took one look at Eddie and dropped his briefcase next to the shoe tree. “What happened?” 

Eddie searched for the words, but the fog was too thick. 

“Bad day,” Richie said, eyes fixed on Eddie. “Do you remember, right after…?” 

Stan’s mouth flattened. “I remember.” 

Eddie yawned. Thinking was too hard. His skin had been crawling for so long. He just wanted to scrape off the spiders and go to sleep. 

Richie stared. “Sorry, Eds.” 

Stan sighed. “Why don’t you come take your shower with me? I’ll, uh, scrape off all the spiders.” 

Eddie hummed, losing himself in the grain of the floor. 

Stan leaned into Richie, whispering something Eddie couldn’t be bothered to try and decipher. They kissed briefly, then Stan grabbed his briefcase and gestured for Eddie to follow him upstairs. 

As Eddie turned, Richie grabbed his hand, squeezed it hard, and let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to shoot me a request or come talk to me in general at: https://readinglikechickensoup.tumblr.com/


	6. Stan (The Present: Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific TW: suicide ideation mention; disordered eating; frank discussion about suicide

The sun pressed against Eddie’s eyelids in red bursts. He tried to sit up, to open his eyes, but was trapped in the thick molasses of sleep. 

Someone tapped on his nose, so gently it seemed like part of a dream. 

“Spaghetti-O,” Richie whispered. “I see those pretty peepers blinkin’ and winkin’. You ready to wake up?” 

Eddie groaned and pushed himself upright, his body heavy and uncooperative. Was he hungover or something? 

“There’s my little ray of sunshine.” 

“I am five-nine,” Eddie said. “That’s average, you fucking tree.” 

Richie beamed. “He’s back, ladies and gents.” 

“Back?” Eddie stretched, joints cracking. 

His smile faded. “What do you remember from yesterday?” 

“Uh. I went to work—” His stomach clenched hot. The clock on the dresser read 11:58am. “What day is it?” 

“Friday.” 

“Fuck.” Eddie jumped out of bed. “Fuck. Shit—” 

“Eds.” 

“Oh my fucking god. Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

“Eddie.” 

“I’m gonna get fired—” 

“No.” Richie grabbed his shoulders and held him still. “You’re not.” 

“I no-called no-showed. That’s automatic termination.” Eddie struggled out of his grip. “Maybe if I can explain—”

“You don’t have to!” Richie snapped. “Bev called you in.” 

He stared. “She can’t do that.” 

Richie rolled his eyes. “Well, she did. And then your boss—nice guy—demanded to speak to you, so I did my best impression of you at a frat party.” He crudely mimed vomiting into a trashcan. 

Eddie felt the blood drain from his face. “What did he say?” 

“Oh, he’s a fuckin’ dick. But after I ralphed for the third time, like, _graphically_ he said ‘get better soon.’ So you’re good.” 

“Oh god.” His stomach was a fist. “I have to go in. I have to explain—” 

“No you don’t.” 

Eddie took a deep breath. “Richie, I know it’s been a long time, but when you have a real job with a real boss, you can’t just take a day off whenever you fucking feel like it!” 

“First of all, fuck you, my job is real. Second, that’s not it. You need rest.” 

“I need to be doing the job I was hired to do!” 

“Babe.” Richie pinched his nose under his glasses. “ _Astronauts_ don’t take their jobs this seriously.” 

“I can fucking assure you—” 

He held up a hand and took out his phone. “I’m calling Stan. If he agrees with you, I won’t say another fucking word.” 

“I’m an adult. I don’t need Stanley’s permission to go to work.” 

Richie rolled his eyes and placed the call.

Eddie bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. When was the last time Richie sanitized that thing? When was the last time he had even washed his face, for that matter? 

“Hey, Stanny, Eds is hulking out about work. Can you be a peach and explain things? Thanks, sweetheart.” He held the phone near Eddie, flat in his hand. 

“Hello?” Stan said through the speaker. 

“Why didn’t my alarms go off this morning, Stanley? It is hugely inappropriate—” 

“Eddie, do you remember anything from yesterday?” he asked, tone brusque. 

“Of course I fucking remember yesterday! I went to work and I…” Eddie’s stomach burned. “I…” 

“What happened at work?” 

“Uh.” He flopped on the bed. Richie moved the phone closer. “Everyone was sick. Everyone’s been sick. And I worked.” 

“How did you get home?” 

“I drove.” He said more confidently than he felt. 

“Nope. Bev had to come get you.” 

“What?” 

“I think you were dissociating. Bev said you were just sitting in your car, had been for hours. It wasn’t even on.” 

“You still felt cold when I squished you,” Richie added. 

Eddie’s head spun. It was like he’d forgotten to set the DVR. He knew yesterday happened, could feel it, but it just wasn’t on tape.

“You weren’t yourself. You kept drifting off and muttering about spiders. You made me scrub you three times. You were almost raw.” 

Eddie flushed hot. “Oh.” 

“It’s not your fault.” Stan’s voice was gentle. “Bev said everyone at work was sick and getting into your space. It’s understandable you were overwhelmed.” 

Irritation flooded Eddie’s gut. “That’s no reason why I couldn’t go to work today.” 

Richie sighed. “You didn’t see yourself.” 

“I’m not sick.” 

“You are,” Stan said. “You had a major mental health event. We had no way of knowing what state you would be in when you woke up. What if you dissociated while driving and got lost or had an accident? We decided it was safer to let you sleep.” 

“You guys had no right to do that.” Eddie felt mean, but was too angry to care. 

“You didn’t see yourself,” Richie repeated. 

“So? It’s fucking important that I go to work. I have bills to pay.” 

Stan was quiet for a long time. Then, a light thump came over the receiver, like a door closing. 

“Do you remember the shitty apartment from after college?” Stan asked. 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“Do you remember my first job, when I was working sixteen hour days for that company that treated me like shit?” 

“Yes.” There were days at a time where he wouldn’t see or speak to Stan at all. 

“Do you remember,” he asked, voice hardening, “that night you found me in the bathroom and I said I wanted to die?” 

Eddie’s head spun. He could picture it so clearly: the scraggy, yellowing linoleum, the black mold lining the shower, which remained no matter how many times he scrubbed it with bleach, Stan sitting on the toilet, next to the full tub, his—“Yes.” 

Richie’s forehead creased. 

“Do you remember what you told me?” 

“Not…not really.” He remembered panicking, scrambling to find something to say. Feeling inadequate. “Probably that I didn’t, you know, want you to die.” 

“You told me that I was more important than a stupid job. You said if I didn’t quit then you’d quit for me, that there were six other people with jobs and we would be fine. That everyone needed me and I owed it to myself to get better.” 

“Oh.” 

“Eddie. You are more important than a stupid job. There are six other people with jobs, _good_ jobs. We will be more than fine without your income. _We all need you._ ” His voice cracked. “You owe it to yourself to get better.” 

Eddie felt empty, scooped out with a spoon. “What if…what if I can’t get better?” 

“You can,” Stan insisted. “You’ve had a hard year. I’m sure working there has only made it harder.” 

“How do you know it would help to quit? Didn’t you tell me that I needed to expose myself to these things to get better?” 

“There is a difference between physical connection with domestic partners who want the best for you and working in that fucking disease factory. Eddie, no one is permitted to take time off to get better, and you’re probably the only one who cares about proper sanitization.” 

“But—” 

Stan took a deep breath. “Just give it the weekend. Please.” 

Eddie deflated. “Sure.” 

“Thank you. Now, I really have to go back to work. My secretary has knocked five times.” 

“Thanks, Staniel, love you,” Richie said.

“Love you,” Eddie and Stan echoed. 

Richie slouched against the wall. “Did he really…?” 

Eddie nodded. He could still see the look on Stan’s face: eyes glassy, skin grey, cheeks sunken. It was like he was dead already. For months after, Eddie watched and wondered how he’d missed Stan’s pain. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Eddie shrugged. “He didn’t want anyone to know.” 

“That’s bullshit,” Richie snapped. 

“Like you’ve never kept a secret before.” 

“Not a secret like that! Jesus Christ, what if…what if…” 

_What if._

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to push.” Eddie rubbed a hand over his face. “Ask him about it.” 

“Fine.” Richie plopped down on the dining chair between the beds. He must have brought it in while Eddie was sleeping. “What do you want to do today?” 

“Computer work.” 

Richie blew a raspberry. “Naw, man. You’re gonna have fun if it kills you.” 

“I have work—” 

He blew another raspberry. “Nope. The only thing you _have_ to do today is hang out with me. Your choices are: watch movies, fuck me, or go to the zoo.” 

“Why would I go to the zoo twice?” 

Richie threw his head back and laughed. “Spaghetti-O gets off a good one!”

Eddie still felt like he was wearing a weighted blanket—heavy, unwieldly. “Would you mind if we just watched movies?” 

He grinned. “Not at all.” As they walked out of the room, Richie pinched Eddie’s sleeve between his fingers. “Missed you, man.” 

Eddie’s heart gave a painful squeeze. “Look, I’m…” 

“What do you want to watch?” Richie cut in, herding him down the stairs. 

“ _Goonies_ , duh.” 

“Duh.” 

—

The rest of the day sprawled out in a haze, lazy and comfortable. Eddie spread a clean fleece blanket on his favorite squishy armchair. Richie made them popcorn and lay on one of the couches, wrapped in a knit throw. They bickered and laughed their way through _The Goonies_ , trying to decide who was whom. 

“Shut the fuck up, I am not Sloth.” 

“You’re right. He’s too nice. You’re Andy. C’mon, look at those soulful brown eyes and freckles.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Stephanie. Who’s my Brand?” 

“Mikey or Ben, take your pick.”

“Impossible.” 

Richie laughed. “Right? It’s like choosing between steak and lobster.” 

After _The Goonies_ , they slid in _The Lost Boys_. Bill came in during the opening scene, took one look at the carousel, and dumped all the books and papers in his arms onto the coffee table. He pushed Richie’s legs out of the way and flopped on the couch. 

“Hello to you too, Big Bill,” Richie said. 

He flushed. “Hi g-guys.” 

Richie pressed a kiss to the corner of his soft pink mouth. “You wanna play Michael and David later? I’ll wear the wig.” 

He sighed and leaned in for a deeper kiss. “You know I d-do.” 

Richie smiled and lay down, tucking his head in Bill’s lap, pressing a kiss to his jeans zipper. “I’ll see you later.” 

Bill rolled his eyes and Eddie turned his attention back to the screen, hugging a corner of the blanket tight to his chest. 

—

Mike strolled in an hour or so later, dressed in a long black coat over an olive sweater, looking like someone’s dream of a college professor. He kissed Bill and Richie, then smiled at Eddie. “Movie day?” 

“Yeah. It’s _Jurassic Park_ next.” 

“Awesome. I’ll be right back.” 

Ten minutes later, Mike curled up on the empty couch. He’d changed into old blue-grey sweats. Eddie wanted to crawl in his lap, rest his head on his chest, and breathe him in. Instead, Eddie wrapped himself tightly in his blanket. 

“What are you d-doing?” Bill laughed. 

“Making you more comfortable,” Richie said, pulling Bill’s jeans off and throwing them in a corner. “Wouldn’t want that boner to punch a hole in your pants.” 

He blushed deeply. “I’m not that hard.” 

“Liar.” Richie settled back down and pressed a kiss to the tent in Bill’s boxers. “You know I love your dick, babe. Let me get a preview.” 

“You okay, Eddie?” Mike whispered. 

Eddie nodded, burying his face in his blanket. “I’ll be fine.” 

Mike frowned, but didn’t say anything else. 

—

As the end credits for _The Lost Boys_ rolled, Ben walked in. He wore a fitted navy pinstripe suit that clung to his muscular arms and the softness of his stomach. The top three buttons on his white shirt were undone, exposing the mole at the base of his neck, the gentle dip of his clavicle, and the light dusting of hair across his chest. 

Eddie was too hot under his blanket, but didn’t dare take it off. 

“What’s going on guys?” Ben asked, dropping a kiss on Bill’s forehead.

“Movie day,” Richie grunted, pulling him down for a proper kiss. “ _Jurassic Park_ is next.” 

“Yes!” Ben grinned. “Should I have Bev pick up pizza, Chinese, or Indian?” 

“Whatcha in the mood for, Edster?” Richie asked. 

“Indian.” Eddie burrowed deeper into his chair. “From that place with the good Aloo gobi.” 

“Sounds good.” Ben stooped to kiss Mike’s cheek. “What does everyone want?” 

After he called to give Bev their orders, he dashed upstairs to change. When he came back in a clinging white t-shirt and loose grey shorts, Eddie had to leave the room for a drink of water. 

When he came back, Ben was on the couch, tucked up against Mike’s chest. Bill had moved to lay down so that Richie was between his legs, head resting on his stomach. 

Tears burned behind Eddie’s eyes, though he couldn’t explain why. He blinked hard and focused on Laura Dern. 

—

When the T-Rex attacked the velociraptors, Bev walked in laden with takeout bags. She disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with empty arms to lean against the wall. As soon as the credits rolled across the screen, she turned on the overhead light. 

“Food’s in the kitchen. Stan got out early and should be home in twenty.” 

“He c-calls this early?” Bill muttered, turning off the television. 

“Better than when he used to get home near-midnight every night,” Richie said, stretching. 

Mike shook his head. “He works too much.” 

“You know Stan,” Eddie said. “He doesn’t stop ‘til things are perfect.” 

Richie nodded at Bill, then approached Bev with his arms outstretched, like he was going to hug her. At the last moment, he swept her in his arms and draped her legs over his shoulder, so that she hung upside down. She laughed, pink skirt falling around her hips. Grinning, Bill pulled her blouse down and covered her stomach with open mouthed kisses that made her scream with laughter. 

“Guys…guys!” She pushed at Bill’s shoulders. “Let me down!” 

Bill pressed a final, smacking kiss to her belly button, then Richie twisted her upright and kissed her on the mouth, deep and filthy, before setting her down. 

Grinning broadly, face as red as her hair, Bev fixed her skirt. “I’m gonna get you guys back for that.” 

Richie winked. As he passed, she pinched his ass so hard he yelped. 

“Consider that a taste.” 

“Consider me interested,” he said, breathless. 

Before Bev could respond, Ben grabbed her hand and twirled her into his arms, flush to his chest, and kissed her. When they separated, she stroked his face with the tips of her fingers. 

“I’ll Be Loving You Forever,” she said. 

He laughed. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?” 

“Never.” 

He kissed her again. “I love you, too.” 

When Ben let her go, Mike folded Bev in his arms. “I’m sorry you had a bad day, beautiful.” 

“It’s okay.” She pressed up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “I’m better now.” 

“Good,” he said, smoothing her hair in even strokes. 

Eddie pushed out of his chair, back cracking. Bev kissed Mike’s shoulder, then rushed over to Eddie. Despite the flush in her cheeks, her expression was drawn and the circles under her eyes were a vibrant purple grey. Eddie wanted to wipe them away with his thumbs. 

“Why was your day bad?” he asked. 

She shrugged. “You look better. How do you feel?” 

“I’m okay.” 

“Were you pissed we called you off? I told them you were gonna be pissed.” 

“I was,” he admitted. “But maybe it wasn’t a bad thing.” 

“It wasn’t.” She fingered the edge of his shirt. “You scared me yesterday.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I’m glad you called.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Now let’s get some food in you.” 

—

When everyone had settled at the table with their takeout, Stan arrived. After washing his hands, he strode to his spot next to Bill, dropped in his seat, and immediately scarfed down three bites in such quick succession there was no way he stopped to chew. 

“You okay?” Bill asked, staring at him. 

Stan swallowed, took a swig of Bill’s water. “Yes.”

“Stanley.” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.” 

“How many meals this t-time?” 

“Only a few.” He took naan from its foil packaging, ripped off a small piece, and dipped it in his curry. “It’s fine.” 

“Sure,” Bill muttered. He turned back to his chicken tikka masala, but the worried wrinkle at the corner of his mouth remained. Eddie glanced at Richie, expecting him to drop a joke and take the heat off Stan, but he never looked up from his samosas. 

“What movies are we watching next?” Mike asked. 

“ _Heathers_ then _The Breakfast Club_.” 

“Okay,” Ben said around a mouthful of samosa, “but the first person who tells me to fuck them gently with a chainsaw gets garbage duty for a week.” 

“Oh, Benny.” Bev leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You say that every time we watch it and still, Richie has never taken out the garbage in his life.” 

“Hey, I leave the house. That counts.” 

“Sure.” Eddie snorted. “But then you come back.” 

Richie stuck out his tongue. 

—

After dinner, Eddie flopped back on his armchair. Bev sat in between Ben and Mike on one couch, her head on Mike’s chest, Ben’s head in her lap. 

Richie folded into a corner of the other couch, arms wrapped around his legs. Bill sat sideways, leaning against Richie’s arm, and pulled Stan in between his legs and against his chest. The next time Eddie looked over, when Veronica was puking on Heather’s shoes, Stan was asleep and Bill was stroking his hair. 

It struck Eddie that he didn’t remember what it was like to be held like that. Couldn’t remember the last time he relaxed into the warmth of someone else’s body. Didn’t even know who his last kiss was. 

What if he never had that again? What if he pushed them away too many times and they asked him to leave? He could live alone, but what would be the point? 

“I love you guys,” he blurted. “You know that, right?” 

Bill paused the movie and stared at him with wide eyes. 

Ben sat up and squeezed Eddie’s shoulder. It was not unwelcome. “We know. We love you, too.” 

“We do.” Bill wrapped one of Stan’s curls around his index finger. “That’s not ever gonna change.” 

His face heated. “I’m trying.” 

“You’re doing great,” Mike said from behind a curtain of Bev’s hair. 

“It doesn’t feel like it.” 

“I know.” 

“We’re here for you, sweetheart,” Bev said. 

“Always,” Richie promised. 

—

Later, when Bender had fist-pumped into the credits of their final movie and everyone was at least half asleep, Eddie hurried upstairs to his bathroom. He didn’t want to watch everyone trade affection he wasn’t ready for. 

A few minutes later, Stan opened the bathroom door, eyes glassy with sleep. “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

Eddie shrugged. 

“It’s okay if you want to sleep in your own bed tonight.” 

“No. I want to get better.” 

Stan nodded. “Let’s get ready, then.” 

They showered together in silence, taking turns scrubbing each other’s backs. When Eddie finished, he took a new blanket and pillow off his bed and arranged them on top of Stan’s comforter. This time, he moved them a little closer to where Stan liked to sleep. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to wake up in Stan’s arms again. 

As he lowered himself onto the mattress, the door burst open. 

“Where’s Stanley?” Richie demanded. 

“I thought you were gonna fuck Bill.” Eddie adjusted the pillow under his head. 

Richie flushed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Yeah I did that.” 

“That was fast.” 

“Fuck off.” He laughed. “That wig really does the job, ya know?” 

“No,” Eddie said. “Maybe someday you can wear it for me.” 

His eyes widened, then a small smile spread across his face. “Any day a’ the week, Spagheds.” 

Eddie’s face burned. 

An intense look came into Richie’s eyes. He loomed over Eddie. “It is too late. My blood is in your veins,” he said in a whispery Kiefer Sutherland impression. 

Eddie swallowed. “Doesn’t he get impaled after he says that?” 

“Exactly.” He grinned. 

Stan opened the bathroom door, took one look at Richie, and shut the door again. 

“Oh, fuck off, Staniel.” When the door did not reopen, he rolled his eyes. “Guess I’m just gonna have to take some random pieces from these bird puzzles and throw them in the yard.” 

He made a big show of knocking the boxes around. As soon as the plastic casing ripped, Stan burst through the door. “I will call your show on air and tell everyone you wet the bed until you were fifteen.” 

Richie gasped. “That’s not even true!” 

“Isn’t it?” His eyes glittered. “I seem to remember having to do laundry after a certain sleepover.” 

“It was one accident. I had a nightmare!” Richie was bright red, but laughing. 

“I don’t remember that,” Eddie said. 

The smile slid off Stan’s face. “You weren’t attending many sleepovers when we were fifteen, remember?” 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

Stan turned to Richie, sighing. “Do we really need to talk about it? It was four years ago.” 

Richie rubbed at his jaw. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if we don’t.” 

“Take a Benadryl.” 

“And then what? Forget about it?” 

“Ideally.” 

“Well, I can’t.” 

Stan rolled his eyes, closed the door, and sat on the foot of the bed. Eddie thought he could feel anxiety in the sharp dip of the mattress. “Go on. Get it over with.” 

“Get it over with?” 

He waved a hand. “Yell at me, whatever.” 

Richie’s face did something scary, then smoothed out like the surface of a lake. Eddie was reminded of him as a boy. Whatever he felt was either locked away under layers of jokes and Voices or exploding over everything. No exceptions. No middle ground. 

Richie kneeled in front of Stan. “I’m not gonna yell at you, man. I just want you to talk to me.” 

Stan’s mouth thinned. 

“What happened?” His voice was low, gentle. 

“You heard. I was working a lot and they treated me like shit.” 

“Did you…” His Adams apple bobbed. “Did you have a plan?” 

Stan closed his eyes. “Yes.” 

Eddie readjusted slowly, laying with his head toward the foot of the bed so he could see Stan’s face. “I didn’t know you had a plan.” 

“I didn’t want to worry you more than I already had.” He gripped the coverlet so tightly his knuckles were white. “Yeah, I thought it was the only solution to my problems.” 

Richie rubbed circles into Stan’s thighs. “Have you felt that way since?” 

He blew out a long breath. “Yes, but I haven’t… _had a plan_ since.” 

Richie dropped his head in Stan’s lap briefly. “Did you tell anyone other than Eddie? 

“No.” He bit his lip. “Bill found out, but that was an accident.” 

Eddie could see the shape of “ _Bill_ knows?” on Richie’s mouth, but the words never came. 

“How did he find out?” Eddie asked. 

A pink flush rose in his cheeks. “It’s embarrassing.” 

“Stanley.” 

He looked away. “I fucking cried, okay? We were in the middle of sex and I started crying and obviously he wanted to know why. Have you ever tried lying to Bill when he turns those eyes on you? When he’s literally inside you?” 

Richie shuddered. “Nope.” 

“How did he take it?” Eddie asked. 

“Oh. He wouldn’t let me out of his sight for weeks and I had to beg him not to tell anyone else.” Stan folded in on himself a little. “Still, sometimes he looks at me and I know he’s thinking about it.” 

“How did he hide that?” 

“I was unemployed.” Stan shrugged. “If you recall, there were four rooms in that apartment, one of which was the only bathroom. No one was ever alone. Bill’s a better liar than you’d think.” 

“This house has plenty of alone rooms,” Richie pointed out. 

“I don’t want to die, Rich.” 

“But that could change.” 

“I guess, yeah.” 

“Would you tell me? If it happened again.” 

“I don’t know,” Stan admitted. “I was in a pretty dark place. I wouldn’t’ve told Eddie if he hadn’t walked in on me.” 

Richie sighed and buried his face in Stan’s lap. 

On impulse, Eddie reached over and wiggled his hand up Stan’s shirt to cradle the smooth small of his back. His heart beat faster and his skin began to crawl, so he took a deep breath and reminded himself that he had just washed that back. It was clean. Stan was clean. “Maybe it’s time to tell everyone,” he suggested. 

Stan stiffened. “No.” 

Eddie drummed his fingers against the knobs of his spine. “What are you so afraid of?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What are you afraid is going to happen if everyone knows?” 

Richie lifted his head. His eyes were shiny, but no tears had fallen. “Yeah, Stan. What are you afraid of?” 

He closed his eyes and was quiet for a long time. So long that Eddie’s arms began to ache and Richie had drawn blood biting the skin off his lips.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I need to think on that.” 

“That’s fair,” Eddie said. 

Richie fingered the inner seam of Stan’s pajama pants. He sighed and leaned down to kiss his nose. “It’s okay.” 

“Stanley, you’ve been my best friend my whole life. You almost—” He choked. “You were in pain and I didn’t even notice. That’s not okay.”

“I’m good at hiding things.” He shrugged. “No one noticed. It’s not your fault.” 

“Eds and Bill did.” 

“That’s only because they were present when I broke.” He sighed, tucked a loose strand of hair behind Richie’s ear. “I have a therapist now. I am going to be okay.” 

“You fucking better be.” 

Stan’s smile was as thin as spider silk. “Don’t you have a show in the morning?” 

“Yeah.” He stood and kissed Stan’s forehead. “I’m guessing I’m not invited to the slumber party.” 

“We’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Right.” He paused at the doorway, shoulders hunched. Without turning, he said, “I love you, you know that, right? I really, really do. Losing you… _god_.” 

Stan flinched. “I love you, too.” 

Richie sniffed and strode from the room. 

As soon as the door closed, Stan reached behind himself, took Eddie’s hand, and held it in his lap, so gently they almost weren’t touching. “Is this okay?”

“It’s making my skin crawl,” Eddie admitted, “but I’m trying to get through it.” 

“You’ll get there,” he promised, squeezing once before letting go. 

Eddie forced his hand to linger on Stan’s lap, to grasp his thigh. “Are you okay?” 

“I will be.”


End file.
